Hell To Pay

chapter 29

THE man at the used-car lot on Blair Road had told Garfield Potter that there might be some white smoke at first, coming out the exhaust pipes of the ’88 Ford Tempo he was about to sell him, but not to worry.

“It just needs a good highway run,” said the man, some kind of Arab, or a Paki, maybe; Potter couldn’t tell one from the other. “Blow the cobwebs out, and it’s going be just like new.”

Potter knew the man was lying, but the price was right, and anyway, he was lookin’ for something wouldn’t attract much attention. An ’88 Tempo? That was just about as no-attention-gettin’ a motherfucker as you could get.

Looking in the rearview, going east on New York Avenue, he could see the white smoke trailing out behind the Ford. Carlton Little had made mention of it, as he always reminded Potter that what they were rolling in was a hoop, but he hadn’t said much after that.

Little had turned the radio up loud. Flexx had a set going on PGC, the same list they played over and over every night, their most-requested jams. It had gone from Mystikal to R. Kelly to Erykah Badu since they’d left the house. Little had been kind of bobbing his head up and down, the same way no matter the beats, all the way. Potter didn’t bother talkin’ to him when he was chronicked out all the way, like he was now.

As he drove down the road, Potter saw a woman outside one of those welfare motels they had on New York. Woman had a boy by the hand and a cigarette hanging out her mouth, and she was leading the kid across the lot. Potter could see the boy’s shirt, had one of those Pokémon characters on it, sumshit like that.

Potter had had a shirt with E.T. on the front of it when he was a kid. He was too young to have seen the movie in a theater, but his mother had bought the video for him from the Safeway on Alabama Avenue, and he had just about wore that tape out. He really loved that part where the boy kind of flew up in the sky on his bicycle against that big old moon. For a long time Potter had thought that if he had a special bike like that boy did, he could fly away, too. Until this man who was always hangin’ around the apartment laughed at him one night when he talked about it, called him a dumb-ass little kid.

“You ain’t flyin’ no goddamn where,” said the man, Potter still remembering his words. “You a project boy, and a project boy is all you will be.”

His mother should’ve said something to that man. Told him to shut his mouth, that her boy could do anything he wanted to do. That he could fly against the moon, even, if he had a mind to. But she hadn’t said a thing. Maybe she knew the man was right.

Potter got the Tempo on the Beltway and forced the car up to sixty-five. The new Destiny’s Child was on the radio. Little was bobbing his head, kind of staring out through the windshield, his mouth open, his eyes set.

Potter’s mother, she had this smell about her, sweet, like strawberries, somethin’ like that. It was these oils she used to wear. He remembered when she used to hold his hand like that woman was holdin’ that kid’s hand back in that lot. He could close his eyes and recall the way it felt. She had calluses on her palms from work, but her fingers were cushioned, like, sorta like that quilt blanket she’d cover him with at night. Her hand was always warm, like bein’ under that blanket was warm, too. And sometimes when he couldn’t sleep she’d sit by his bed, smoke a cigarette, and talk to him till he got drowsy. Once in a while, even now, he’d smell cigarette smoke somewhere, maybe it was the same brand she’d smoked, he didn’t know, but it would remind him of her, sitting by his bed. When he was a kid and she was there for him, before she fell in love with that pipe. Forgetting she had a kid still needed her love, too.

But fuck it, you know. He wasn’t no motherfuckin’ kid no more.

“Dirty,” said Potter.

“Huh?”

“Read them directions to me, man, tell me where we at.”

Little squinted as he picked up the paper in his lap and tried to read Potter’s handwriting, nearly illegible, in the dark of the car.

“Take the next exit,” he said. “Take the one goes east.”

They took the exit and the road off of it, brightly lit at first and then dark where the county had ended the lamps. They went along woods and athletic complexes and communities with gates.

“You ever think of your moms, Dirty?”

“My mother?” said Little. “I don’t know. I think of my aunt some, ’cause she owes me money.” He smiled as he heard the first few notes of a song coming from the radio. “This is that new Toni Braxton joint right here, ‘Just be a Man’? I’d be a man to her, she let me.”

Potter didn’t know why he bothered talking to Carlton. But he figured he’d keep hangin’ with him anyhow. He didn’t have Dirty, he didn’t have no one at all.

“Where we at?” said Potter.

Little looked at the notepaper. “Turn ought to be comin’ up, past some church on the right-hand side.” Little pointed through the windshield. “There go the church, right up there.”

A half mile past the church, Potter made a turn into an ungated, unmarked community of large houses with plenty of space in between them. Many of the houses were dark, but that didn’t mean anything. It was a Monday night, and it had gotten late.

“Right turn up there,” said Little. “Then a left.”

Potter made the first turn. Some light from a corner lamppost, made to look like one of those antique jobs, bled into the car and cast yellow on his face. Then his face was greenish from the light drifting off the dash.

“You know what to do,” said Potter, “we get in there.”

Potter made the second turn.

Little pushed out his hips, withdrew his Walther from where he had fitted it, and racked the slide.

“Kill Old-time,” he said, refitting the gun under his shirt.

“Once we get the video,” said Potter, “we’ll down him quick. Put a couple in his head and get out.”

Little put on his gloves. He held the wheel steady as Potter did the same. They were on a cul-de-sac now that had only three houses set on oversize lots. The first house was dark inside, with only a lamp on over the front door. They passed the second house, completely dark, with two black Mercedes sedans parked in its circular driveway.

“There’s the Caddy,” said Little, chinning toward the black Brougham parked in the circular drive in front of the last house on the street.

Potter parked the Ford along the curb and killed its engine.

They walked over grass and asphalt, then grass again, as they neared the steps of the brick colonial. The first-floor interior of the house was fully lit. An attached garage with a row of small rectangular windows across the top of its door was lit, too.

Potter and Little stood beneath a portico marking the center of the house. At Potter’s gesture, Little rang the doorbell. Through leaded glass, Potter could see the refracted image of a man wearing black coming down a hall. The door opened. The football coach, the one who called himself Strange, stood in the frame.

“Come on in,” said Strange.

They stepped into a large foyer. Strange closed the door and stood before them.

Potter licked his lips. “Somethin’ you want to say to me?”

“Just wanted to have a look at you.”

“You had it. Let’s get on about our business.”

“You got the money?”

“In my jacket, chief.”

“Let me see it.”

“When I see the tape.”

Strange breathed out slow. “Okay, then. Let’s go.”

“Hold up. Want to make sure you’re not strapped.”

Strange spread his black leather jacket and held it open. Little stepped forward and frisked him like he’d seen it done on TV. He nodded to his partner, letting him know that Strange was unarmed.

“Follow me back,” said Strange. “I’ve got a studio in the garage. The tape is back there.”

They walked down one of the halls framing the center staircase, leading to a kitchen and then a living area housing an entertainment center and big cushiony furniture.

“Thought you said this house was unoccupied,” said Potter.

“I rent it furnished,” said Strange over his shoulder.

And it’s all high money, too, thought Potter. And then he thought, Somethin’ about this setup ain’t right.

“What you do to get this?” said Potter, elbowing Little, who was clumsily bumping along by his side, away.

“I own a detective agency,” said Strange. “Ninth and Upshur.”

“Yeah,” said Potter, “but what’s your game? I mean, you can’t be havin’ all this with a square’s job.”

“I find people,” said Strange.

They passed a door that was ajar and kept going, Strange stepping down into a kind of laundry room, then heading for another door and saying, “It’s right in here.”

“You can’t be all that good at findin’ people,” said Potter, “to have all this.”

“I found you,” said Strange, and he opened the door.

Beyond the door was just darkness. Potter stared at the darkness, remembering the garage door and its little windows, remembering the light behind the windows as they’d walked toward the house.

“Dirty,” said Potter, and as he reached into his leather for his.38 he heard steps behind him and then felt the press of a gun’s muzzle against the soft spot under his ear.

Little was pushed up against a wall, his face smashed into it by a man holding a gun to the back of his head. The man found Little’s gun and took it.

Potter didn’t move. He felt a hand in his jacket pocket and then the loss of weight there as his revolver was slid out.

“Inside,” said the voice behind him, and he was shoved forward.

Strange flicked on a light switch and moved aside as the four of them stepped down into the garage.

Potter saw a big man in a jogging suit with golden-colored eyes, standing with his hands folded in front of him. A young man in a dress suit stood beside him, an automatic in his hand. On the other side of the big man was a boy, no older than twelve, wearing an oversize shirt, tails out. Other than the people inside of it, the garage was empty. A plastic tarp had been spread on its concrete floor.

Potter recognized the big man as Granville Oliver. Everyone in town knew who he was.

Oliver looked over at Strange, still standing in the open doorway.

“All right, then,” said Oliver.

Strange was staring at the young boy in the oversize shirt. He hesitated for a moment. Then he stepped back and closed the door.

A row of fluorescent lights, set in a drop ceiling, made a soft buzzing sound overhead.

“You Granville Oliver, right?” said Potter.

Oliver stepped forward with the others. The two who had braced Potter and Little had joined the group. Potter and Little retreated and stopped when their backs touched the cinderblock wall of the garage. One of the men reached out and tore Potter’s skully off his head. He threw it to the side.

“What is this?” said Potter, hoping his voice did not sound weak. But he knew that it did. Little’s hand touched his for a moment, and it felt electric.

Oliver said nothing.

“Look, you and me ain’t got no kinda beef,” said Potter. “I been careful to stay out the way of people like you.”

The fluorescent lights buzzed steadily.

Potter spread his hands. “Have I been steppin’ on your turf down there off Georgia? I mean, you tryin’ to build somethin’ up there I don’t know about? ’Cause we will pack up our shit and move on, that’s what you want us to do.”

Oliver didn’t reply.

Potter smiled. “We can work for you, you want us to.” He felt his mouth twitching uncontrollably as he tried to keep the smile.

Oliver’s eyes stayed on his. “You want to work for me?”

“Sure,” said Potter. “Can you put us on?”

“Gimme my gun,” said Oliver, and the young boy beside him reached under the tail of his shirt and withdrew an automatic. Oliver took the gun from the boy and jacked a round into the chamber. He raised the automatic and pointed it at Potter’s face. Potter saw Oliver’s finger slide inside the trigger guard of the gun.

Potter closed his eyes. He heard his friend beside him, sobbing, stuttering, begging. He heard Carlton drop to his knees. He wasn’t gonna go out like Dirty. Like some bitch, pleadin’ for his life.

Potter peed himself. It felt warm on his thighs. He heard the ones who was about to kill him laughing. He tried to open his eyes, but his eyes were frozen. He thought of his mother. He tried to think of what she looked like. He couldn’t bring her up in his mind. He wondered, did it hurt to die.

STRANGE walked through the kitchen toward the stairway hall. He slowed his step and leaned up against an island holding an indoor grill.

Even from here, even with that door to the garage closed, he could hear one of those young men crying. Sounded like he was begging, too. The one with the cornrows, if he had to guess. Strange didn’t even know that young man’s name.

It wasn’t that one, though, or Potter, who had given him pause. It was the young boy standing next to Oliver. The one he’d seen raking leaves the previous day, the one he’d never seen smile. Like he was already dead inside at eleven, twelve years old. Quinn would say that you should never give up on these kids, that it was never too late to try. Well, Strange wasn’t sure about Potter and his kind. But he knew it wasn’t too late for that boy who’d lost his smile.

Strange walked back the way he’d come. He opened the door leading to the garage without a knock. He stepped down onto the plastic tarp and entered the cold room. All heads turned his way.

Granville Oliver was holding an automatic to the face of Garfield Potter. Saliva threads hung from Potter’s open mouth, and his jeans were dark with urine. The smell of his release was strong in the garage. The one with the cornrows was on his knees, tears veining his face. His eyes were red rimmed and blown out wide.

“You ain’t got no business back in here,” said Oliver.

“Can’t let you do this.”

Oliver kept his gun on Potter. “You delivered our boys here. Now you’re done.”

“I thought I was, too,” said Strange. “Can I get a minute?”

“You got to be playin’.”

Strange shook his head. “Look at me, man. Do I look like I’m playin’ to you? Gimme one minute. Hear me out.”

Oliver stared hard at Strange, and Strange stared back.

“Please,” said Strange.

Oliver’s shoulders loosened and he lowered the gun. He turned to the man in the suit, Phillip Wood, standing beside him.

“Hold these two right here,” said Oliver. To Strange he said, “In my office.”

Strange said, “Right.”

A phone chirped as Strange sat in the chair before Granville Oliver’s desk. Oliver reached into his jacket for his cell.

“That’s me,” said Strange, slipping his cell from its holster. “Yeah.”

“Derek, it’s Lydell. We got his statement.”

“Whose?”

“Ray Boyer, the craps player. Said the boy who broke his nose did it with a three fifty-seven snub-nose.”

“He remember the boy’s name?”

“Garfield Potter. They’re runnin’ the name right now, should have a last-known on him any minute.”

“Potter’s the one.”

“What?”

“I can give you his address,” said Strange, looking over Oliver’s shoulder through the office window to the street, where Potter had parked. Potter’s car was gone. “But he ain’t there just yet.”

“What’re you talkin’ about, man?”

“Here it is,” said Strange, and he gave Blue the Warder Street address. “It’s a row house, got nothin’ on the porch. They ought to be there in about a half hour. Both Potter and his partner, the one with the cornrows. Potter’s driving a Ford Tempo, blue, late eighties. The third boy, I can’t tell you where he is. I believe he’s gone.”

“How you know all this, Derek?”

“I’ll explain it to you later.”

“Trust me. You will.”

“Get all your available units over there, Ly. Ain’t that how they say it on those police shows?”

“Derek-”

“How’d practice go?”

“Say what?”

“Practice. The kids all right?”

“Uh, yeah. The boys all got home safe. Don’t be trying to change the subject, man-”

“Good. That’s good.”

“I’m gonna call you later, Derek.”

“I’ll be waiting,” said Strange.

Strange hit “end,” made a one-finger one-moment gesture to Oliver, and punched in Quinn’s number. Quinn had turned his cell off. Strange left a message and stared at the dead phone for a moment before sliding it back in place.

“You done?” said Oliver.

“Yeah.”

“You know, what you did tonight ain’t gonna change a thing in the end. Those two are gonna die. I’ll make sure of that.”

“But not tonight. Not by my setup. Not in front of that little boy you got workin’ for you.”

“Yeah, okay. We been all over that already.”

“I just want that boy to have some kind of chance.”

“So you said. But what would you have done if I had said no?”

“I was counting on reaching your human side. You proved to me that you have one. Thank you for hearin’ me out.”

Oliver nodded. “Boy’s name is Robert Gray. You think I been ruinin’ him, huh?”

“Let’s just say that I don’t see him hookin’ up with your enterprise as an opportunity. You and me, we got a difference of opinion on that.”

“Strange, you ought to see what kind of conditions he was livin’ in when I pulled him out, down there in Stanton Terrace. Wasn’t nobody doin’ a goddamn thing for him then.”

Strange leaned back and scratched his temple. “This Robert, he play football?”

“What’s that?”

“Can he play?”

“Boy can jook. He can hit, too.” Oliver grinned, looking Strange over. “You’re somethin’, man. What, you tryin’ to save the whole world all at once?”

“Not the whole world, no.”

“You know, wasn’t just my human side convinced me to let those boys walk out of here.”

“What was it, then?”

“I’m gonna need you someday, Strange. I had one of those, what do you call that, premonitions. Usually, when I get those kinds of feelings, I’m right.” Oliver pointed a finger at Strange. “You owe me for what I did for you tonight.”

I owe you for more than that, thought Strange.

But he just said, “I do.”

Strange drove back to the city in silence. Coming up Georgia Avenue, he tried to reach Quinn again on his cell but got a recording. He passed Buchanan Street and kept driving north, turning right on Quintana and parking the Cadillac in front of Janine’s. She let him into her house and told him to have a seat on the living room couch. She joined him a few minutes later with a cold Heineken and a couple of glasses. The two of them talked into the night.